Battered, Not Broken: An Open Letter To My Rapist

You have violated my body, but you have no power over me – says this open letter to a rapist.

This post contains descriptions of violence that may be triggering for some readers. Please use your discretion.

I remember how much it hurt. I remember how heavy you felt on top of me; and how I could not struggle free. I remember pleading you to stop. I also remember the first thing you said to me after it was over. “You’re not a virgin, are you? I knew it. Liar”. I quietly picked up my clothes and the torn shreds of dignity I had left.

Standing under the shower, I tried to scrub away the filthiness of your skin, but your dirty touch still lingered. I still do not know what hurt more: the burning pain between my thighs or the agony I felt when you ripped my heart out and left it on the ground to bleed.

Tell me: did it make you feel like more of a man when you heard my muffled pleas, begging you to stop? Did you feel powerful, invading my body, my home? Did you feel accomplished, when you stole my virginity, without my consent? I am haunted day and night, by the things you said, and the things you did.

That smirk of yours which formed on the corner of your mouth. That time when you wanted me to cut myself with a knife. When you would double check my whereabouts with my family. The limitless instances you called me a slut. When you forbade me from buying a cellphone service so I could not contact my other, non-existent, sexual partners. You induced such a heightened sense of fear in me, that living in my own city became a terror. I was always stepping on eggshells because I was scared of displeasing you, in case you lost your temper again.

You ridiculed my body and pointed out flaws in my physical appearance. You made me self-conscious and doubt my sense of fashion. You lowered my self esteem to an extent that I could not make a decision without consulting you. You left me battered and bruised in the streets of vulnerability, leaving my wounds exposed and tender.

You left me battered and bruised in the streets of vulnerability, leaving my wounds exposed and tender.

I hope you have a daughter one day. I hope she never goes through what you put me through. But I do hope that you will be haunted by my face every time you look at her. I hope that every single time she calls you her dear daddy, you will hear my cries. I hope that every time she goes out with her friends, you tremble in fear of her safety. I hope your daughter never knows how it feels like to wake up in the middle of the night, from nightmares of you stabbing her with a knife.

I hope she never knows what it feels to stand still in the middle of a snowstorm; when the icy wind seeps into the folds of her body, uninvited, like you, and pierces her bones and flesh. Because I do know how it feels and I wouldn’t wish it upon another human being.

The pain of what you did was so excruciatingly raw, it made my body numb and lifeless. As I write this, anxiety invades my being. My fingers shake, my mind races, my insides churn and my silenced throat tells me to throw up. But I will keep writing this letter, because I’m no longer a pile of ashes. I’m a phoenix of hope and inspiration; and don’t you dare say I’m anything less than that. Because you left me with strength greater than the pain you caused me. May the god you pray to have mercy on your soul, because I know I never will.

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